The
wind reminds that tomorrow
Has
not been written, it is the pause
At
the end of the present breath, the wind
Carries
on a journey, like droplets
lifted from the sea, water flowers and raise worms
near dawn and unto a silent Robin …
At
dusk beneath the old pin oak,
I
heard an unfamiliar call
Looked
up to see an old red breast had a new song.
In
the heart of evening, the power of the day
Formed
thick cloud and I waited
For
the winds to bring the change
To
thunder and storm… I waited
Knowing
the passion of rising clouds.
The
windless stillness reminds that tomorrow
Has
not been written, it is the pause
In
a lyric just born, for the song
Of
a new day; when the voice rises like warming sun
A
new song of the spirit, new pieces
to
fit a mosaic of time
As
if we were needed for the Sun
To
warm the earth…such imaginings
Borne
on winds of wonder
Like
the butterfly, we rise with moving air
travel
where it will and taste the sweetness
Of
many flowers—it is a world seemingly made for
fragile
wings and ceaseless hungers, and the winds
leave
pathways of scented honey.
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